


Not a Very Interesting Story

by Dira Sudis (dsudis)



Category: Wonder Boys (2000)
Genre: Canon Queer Character, Canon Queer Relationship, M/M, May/December Relationship, Relationship Negotiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:00:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21853339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsudis/pseuds/Dira%20Sudis
Summary: James had realized while he was watching Terry make a deal with his parents and Dr. Gaskell, that he had fallen totally in love with Terry and now he was going to get his heart broken, because that was the way this story went.
Relationships: Terry Crabtree/James Leer
Comments: 19
Kudos: 119
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Not a Very Interesting Story

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mechanicaljewel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mechanicaljewel/gifts).



They had been in New York--mostly in bed, although also a few times in the shower and once in the kitchen--for twenty-four hours when Terry sat up, rubbed his face, and said, sounding a little tired under his briskness, "Okay. I have to be at work in twelve hours, so extremely weird weekend fun time is over. We're going back to reality. I'm going to shower, alone, and put on clothes, also alone, and I will meet you, also fully clothed and reasonably hygienic, in my office, which is the room we haven't fucked in yet."

"We didn't fuck in the living room," James offered as he slowly sat up, trying to sound as cool and unaffected as Terry obviously was. He usually sounded unaffected without even trying, because he usually really was unaffected, at least while he was talking to people. He generally didn't notice until later all the ways he'd fucked it up so he could be ashamed and want to die.

But he wasn't going to want to die this time. He'd realized while he was watching Terry make a deal with his parents and Dr. Gaskell that he had fallen totally in love with Terry and now he was going to get his heart broken, because that was the way this story went. It wasn't a surprise, it was just going to suck.

James would probably get some good writing out of it, though, as long as he didn't waste too much time convincing himself that it really wasn't the kind of thing where he wanted to die.

Other than the hour back at home in his cellar room--when he had wasted no time at all, after his bemused parents dropped him off with a vague admonition to be good and headed to their benefit--he hadn't written anything in four days, not even composing things in his head. He couldn't remember when he'd gone so long before. He would be making up for lost time soon enough, though.

"The living room adjoins the kitchen with no actual intervening wall, and also there was definitely some stuff against the front door, so I'm counting it," Terry said, standing up and turning away. "And don't be a pedant, you know which room I mean when I say the one we haven't fucked in yet."

James did know, of course. There was a little room--a second bedroom by Manhattan real estate standards but probably a smallish closet in his parents' neighborhood in Pittsburgh--across from the bedroom. The door had been closed when they came in, and it had stayed that way. Now that he had a little attention to spare for it, James's brain spun out half a dozen lurid possibilities for what might be hidden in there.

It would just be an office, though, like Terry said, because this was reality.

"Sorry," James said, still trying to be matter of fact and adult, aware of the way this was going. "I know I'm weird and annoying."

Terry turned back and blinked at him. "You're not. Or, I mean, you are, but that makes you not unlike me and pretty much everyone else in the publishing industry, including all the ones I socialize with voluntarily. I didn't actually mean you shouldn't say stuff like that, I was just... making sure we both knew that was a deflection."

"Because it's reality time," James said, because he really didn't know what to make of the rest of what Terry had said. Obviously Terry had been socializing with James voluntarily for the last twenty-four hours, but... maybe he still would? 

Maybe James would say _he_ couldn't, though. That would be mature and dignified; he wouldn't make a scene. He'd have a lot of writing to do, after all, and Terry would have a lot of people to catch up with after a weekend in Pennsylvania and an extra day and night holed up with James.

"Yeah, we're getting there," Terry said. "You want first shower, or are you good to wait? I won't be too long."

"I'm good to wait," James assured him politely, since Terry had already gathered up clean clothes and was edging toward the door.

"Sure you are," Terry said. "Ten-fifteen minutes, try not to write an entire Russian tragedy in your brain while I'm gone, okay? Or if you do take notes and we'll see about developing it into something useable."

James waited until he heard the shower go on, then stood up and found the duffel bag he'd brought along with his knapsack. It was neatly packed; the housekeeper had done it for him. He thought her name was Rita, but she was the fourth or fifth new one since he left for boarding school six years ago. He hadn't gotten to know any of them well since then. 

He idly rehearsed the stories he'd told--or prepared to tell, which happened a lot more than him getting a chance to try his stories on actual people--about his parents' housekeepers. About how the one who left when he was five was the only person who ever paid him attention when he was a kid, and he'd thought she was his grandma (not actually true: he'd had a nanny, and a night nurse when he was a baby, but he also watched old movies with his dad, when he was home sick or on Saturdays in the interval between his dad coming home from a game of golf and going out somewhere with Mom; his mom had tucked him into bed most nights with a brief kiss to his forehead, after reading him a story. And he had actual grandparents, though they'd been old already when he was born and most of them were dead now of boring old age causes.) 

Or there was the story about how four housekeepers in a row got fired after his dad had affairs with them, and the fifth one got fired because she had an affair with his _mom_ (also not true: since 1993 his parents had hired their domestic help through an agency that took care of paying taxes and things, and set up contracts in one-year increments; there had always been some completely boring and manifestly true reason they wanted to change jobs when the first or second contract was up. Everyone had shaken hands and wished everyone else well, without any dramatic scenes.)

James knew he should probably wait and take a shower after Terry--like a normal person--but hanging out alone and naked in Terry's apartment, anticipating what was going to come next, he felt sticky and itchy and restless. And apparently Terry didn't mind him being weird and annoying, so he might as well go ahead and be himself. 

He slipped into the kitchen and washed up at the sink, drying himself with a bright but clearly worn bath towel from the stack on Terry's dresser. He dressed hastily and put the towel in the hamper, stuffed his own dirty things into the laundry sack the housekeeper had packed for him, and crammed the laundry sack back into the duffel bag. 

He was hesitating at the closed office door when Terry said, "I suppose I didn't explicitly insist on you actually taking a shower," as he walked up. He paused, standing close to James, and said, "Although you do smell oddly lemon-fresh. Tell me it's from the hand soap by the sink and you didn't feel compelled to Lysol your privates." Terry stepped around him to open the office door without waiting for a response.

"That would've been overkill," James assured him, following him into the office. It really was just an office, like James had known, really, that it would be. There was a desk covered in stacks of paper, with a big cup of pens and a typewriter _and_ a computer, and the rest of the little room was crowded with books, on shelves and piled everywhere, plus a precariously balanced stack of thick manila envelopes and paper-sized shipping boxes. Manuscripts, obviously, waiting for Terry's attention. "We used condoms and stuff, anyway."

"Yes, we did. Score one for keeping weekend fun time tethered to reality, there. By the way," Terry went on, rummaging around on the cluttered desk, "now that we're here in real life, I'm going to ask you just one more time to really truly pinky swear that you had actually in reality had sex before this weekend and also had been tested for STDs before this weekend."

"Yes and yes," James said, and figured maybe this time he should elaborate a little.

Without making it _really_ elaborate. Just the boring true stuff, so Terry would actually believe it, not just find him interesting. Terry had already found him at least alluring enough to have a lot of sex with and bring to New York, after all. 

"In high school, there was another boy in my year who was gay too, so we tried everything out together, like--if hooking up in high school was the buddy system, he and I just always knew we were going to be buddies." Buddies but not, by any means, _friends_ , and while Chase hadn't liked him much, James hadn't liked Chase much either, so it was pretty fair. And there was no point in telling Terry that he'd never slept beside anyone, or let them play absently with his hair. That wasn't the important stuff, even if James couldn't stop noticing it and thinking about it, trying to memorize every sensation so he could describe it later. "And I get a physical every summer so my doctor's been testing me every year since I told him I'd been sexually active."

Terry looked up from shifting things around to make a clear space on the desk. "You tell your doctor a lot of fun stories about that?"

James rolled his eyes. "No, no point. And it'd probably be unprofessional."

"Yes, right," Terry said, moving to pick up a stack of books that had been completely concealing a chair, and transferring them carefully to the narrow cleared space on the desk. He held his hands to either side for a few seconds, and they teetered but didn't fall. "Professionalism. Let us discuss professionalism, debut author James Leer whose manuscript I have acquired."

James sat in the chair when Terry waved at it, and Terry put on a pair of glasses and scooted his desk chair as close as he could without excavating a lot more stuff off the floor, so the desk wasn't all the way between them. 

James swallowed hard, considering what that meant, Terry talking to him as editor to author. Was Terry, like, compartmentalizing now? He'd said it wasn't a big deal for an editor to sleep with an author, but maybe it was still _some_ kind of deal.

"So," Terry said, clasping his hands and leaning forward intently, all his focus on James again. It was just as overwhelming as every other time. Twenty-four hours hadn't been enough to make it less of a wonderful shock to have Terry's undivided attention. "Tomorrow morning when I go to work, the main thing I'm going to be doing is meeting with various people to hammer out the actual contracts we'll be offering for the manuscripts I acquired this weekend. That mostly means deciding how big an advance you get."

James blinked at him. "It really doesn't matter that much about the money," James said, and then he blurted, "I didn't really need to be rescued."

"Yeah, I figured that out about the time I realized there were no dirty dishes or dust bunnies in your fully-decorated, centrally-heated romantic converted wine cellar studio. Did they actually use it as a wine cellar before you moved in?"

James swallowed. The thing about having all of Terry's focus on him was that Terry didn't fall for James's stories when he was paying attention, and James was too dazed to make up new ones when he was looking into Terry's eyes. It was weird to just say true stuff, but when Terry looked at him like that James didn't mind how boring it all sounded. "They built a new one, so I asked if I could have the old space as my room. I always liked it down there. They had the same company make some renovations, so it'd be nice as a living space. And built my bathroom."

Terry nodded consideringly, and glanced around his office. "Is your bathtub bigger than this entire room?"

"Um," James said. "Nnno. Not _my_ bathtub."

Terry raised his eyebrows.

"Since they were doing the plumbing anyway they put in a hot tub on the other side of the wall," James said with a shrug. "So they don't have to use the one on the deck in the winter, or if the weather's bad."

Terry nodded. "Trust fund? Pied-à-terre on the Upper East Side?"

James nodded back, not bothering to specify the size of the one or the address of the other, although that would have been slightly less stupid and embarrassing than what he did say, which was, "They told me they'd help me get settled in New York if I decided I wanted to stay after the book's done, which probably means they'd buy me an apartment of my own. Dad was saying something about investment opportunities in the Meatpacking District."

Terry did raise his eyebrows at that. "What a delightful location to drop you down in. Do they know you're gay?"

James grimaced and nodded. "I told them the summer after I graduated high school." 

He'd imagined a thousand ways it could go, screaming fights or cold, quiet rejection or, in some really strange alternate universe, hugs and interested questions. Instead, his mom had said, "Oh, like Ellen," and his dad had said, "Well, that explains why you never had any girlfriends," and that had been that.

"Okay, well, good," Terry said, and looked away for a moment, then clapped his hands together. "Anyway, sorry, I got distracted by your whole architectural situation--but right before you mentioned that you said the very worst words an author can ever say to a publisher."

James blinked. "It doesn't matter about the money?" 

It didn't, though. It really didn't. Even if he got a terrible advance, this was only his first book, and he would write lots more. If this one did well they'd pay him more next time, and if it flopped he could change genres, change pen names, put in all the work to really establish himself and build up a career, a body of work. And it wasn't like he was in any danger of starving in the meantime, or sleeping in bus stations other than as a sort of experiment--so Terry didn't have to worry about getting a good deal for him if his bosses thought he'd been wrong to take a shot on a college kid who he was also fucking.

Although Terry probably wouldn't tell them that part, even if it wasn't a big deal.

"Yes, that, those are filthy words, never repeat them again in earshot of me or anyone else in the business," Terry said firmly. "And to make sure that you aren't tempted to..." 

Terry wheeled his chair back and pulled open a desk drawer, fishing around in it. He started pulling out business cards, reading them, occasionally checking the backs for scribbled additions or tapping them against his lips in thought. Some he threw back, but the ones he didn't throw back he held out for James to take. 

James collected them without really looking at them, like Terry was dealing him in for some card game he didn't know the rules to yet. When he had six fanned out between his two hands, Terry shut the drawer decisively and pointed at James's hands. "You are going to get some representation, young man. While I'm at the office doing my job, your job tomorrow is going to be to call one of those people--any of them are fine, and you can go through them all if you have to, though I don't think any of them will let you get away. Feel free to do some research, chat with them, figure out who'll be the best fit, but _call tomorrow_."

James looked down at the cards, finally. Under each name were the words, _Literary Agent_.

"I--" James stared. "What would I say?"

"I will write you a script," Terry said a little grimly. He grabbed a yellow pad and a red pen and started writing--fast enough to look like scribbling, but he actually produced neat, legible small caps. "You say, _Hello, my name is James Leer, and I've received a handshake offer_ \--Terry underlined those words with two emphatic pen-strokes, clearly wanting James to use them verbatim-- _on my debut novel from Terry Crabtree at Iron Door Books, a division of blah blah blah_ , and they're probably not going to let you finish the sentence before they agree to represent you. You can assure them that you haven't signed anything on paper yet."

"Are they... friends of yours?" James asked, looking down. Five of the names were definitely male, and one of the five had what looked like a smudge of lipstick on the corner. Three others had phone numbers hand-written on them. 

"No, I've already slept with all of them, so they won't let me bullshit them and will be predisposed to take up a total stranger's cause if it means they get to make sure I don't screw you too. Metaphorically."

"What if they ask if you're screwing me literally?" James asked, fascinated. Terry was... looking out for him, but in a way that meant encouraging James to go make his own professional connections, not just trust Terry or ride on his coattails. It was somehow almost as heady as Terry liking his book in the first place.

Terry tipped the pen toward him emphatically and wrote that down as a question on the yellow pad. "You say, yes, your professor--your _junior writing seminar_ professor for this semester--introduced me to you and I fucked you and brought you all the way here from Pittsburgh--don't mention your parents have an apartment here, right, you get my drift--and I told you it's okay for us to fuck because you're legal and an editor's not like your teacher or doctor or something."

James bit his lip against a smile, his mind whirling through the sordid possibilities Terry was encouraging him to imply to these people, all so they'd think Terry was taking advantage of him, and push back all the harder on James's behalf. They might even yell at Terry, or be pointedly nasty to him, and gossip about him--about both of them.

Terry glanced up at him with a crooked smile. "I thought you'd like that one. Just don't oversell it, okay? If they offer you a place to stay, you've gone too far."

"Because... really I'll be at my parents' apartment?" It shouldn't have been a question, but it was, and James shut his mouth instead of trying to take it back.

"Well, you're free to if you like it better--more space, I'm sure--but your stuff's already here," Terry said casually, not looking up. "You've practically moved in."

"But not really moved in," James said slowly, because he was still going to be cool about this; he still knew that the story probably ended with him getting his heart broken. Just... maybe not yet. Maybe he could have a little more time with Terry, and a few more days, maybe weeks or even months, of his real life being more interesting than any story he could make up. Of having someone interested in _him_ , and not the stories he could spin. "Because we've only known each other for about three days and you're old enough to be my father and all that."

Terry raised his eyebrows. "I'd have to have gotten an early start, but, yeah, seventeen years is a bit of a gap in experience."

"My biological father did get an early start," James said, and shook his head quickly to Terry's narrow-eyed look as he added, "They really are my grandparents, technically, but I didn't know that until I turned eighteen, and they told me my older brother Justin is really my father, and they adopted me when I was born. Justin was sort of awkward about it, because we've never really been close, what with him being seventeen years older, and he has a wife and kids now, but he told me I could talk to him if I had any questions about it. He took me to meet my biological mom for lunch, which was even more awkward, but..." James shrugged. "Just that, awkward. Everyone was polite and she gave me a hug and her phone number and stuff. There was no hook. No climax. She sent me a Christmas card with baby polar bears on it last year."

He had looked at it and seen the death of the last possibility that he could ever disrupt the calm surfaces of any of the people who were supposed to care most about him. His whole future had seemed like an endless, featureless, snow-covered plain where even the polar bears were just harmless furry cherubs. 

Then he'd gone and finished his novel in a four-day sleepless rush. His mom and dad and the housekeeper--he was really pretty sure her name was Rita--had all brought him food from time to time, and extra paper and pens and typewriter ribbons, and left clean pajamas folded on the bathroom counter. 

They'd done it all quietly, without fuss. Without anyone _making a scene_. They knew his writing was important to him, and anyway he was on winter break.

"Huh," Terry said. "Your real life was pretty short on climaxes before this weekend, wasn't it." It wasn't a question, and there was a little bit of a smile at the corners of his mouth. 

James couldn't help smiling back, too wide, when he knew he should be subtle and flirt and all that. "Yeah, um... yeah. Never made for an interesting story. That's probably why I make up so many of my own."

"Well," Terry nodded toward the cards in James's hands. "It's gonna be your agent's job to protect your productivity and your career, so I can probably get away with taking you..." 

James leaned forward, eager, lips parting, and Terry shook his head on a long exhale. "To the couch to watch a movie or two, and eat food off plates instead of anybody's bare skin, and then to bed to _sleep_ , because apparently I'm old enough to be your father, you little brat. I've gotta conserve my energy so I can convince my corporate bosses to pay you at least half of what you're worth tomorrow."

James nodded, then said hopefully, "But even if you need your rest, there could still be a climax or two for me, right?"

"As both your editor and the guy you're sleeping with and cohabiting with but totally not actually living with because it's way, way too soon," Terry said, all on one breath, so he had to stop and marshal the next words, "You really need to learn to love some falling action, Jimmy. Come on, let's go check out my extensive collection of takeout menus."

"Jimmy?" James asked, wrinkling his nose, but he let Terry draw him to his feet and lead him out of the office--leaving the door open behind them this time, which was probably a symbol of something, though James wasn't going to stop and figure out what right now. "Really? Do I seem like a Jimmy to you?"

"Well, Jimmy Leer would certainly stand out a little more as a nom de plume, God knows there're already plenty of James WASPs on the shelves. But mostly..." 

Terry stopped them at the spot where the living room adjoined the kitchen with no actual intervening wall, and gave James a brief, light kiss and a one-armed squeeze. "You look like somebody who could never really convince himself to claim a nickname, so he just keeps introducing himself as James, and who'd enjoy being a little annoyed by being called Jimmy because it gives him some cover for being secretly delighted that someone bothered to call him that."

"Oh," James said, leaning into Terry and feeling a little dizzy from the realness of it all, standing with one bare foot on linoleum and the other on carpet, in a tiny Manhattan apartment in February when he should have been cramming for midterms. With Terry holding him close even when he knew that James himself wasn't really very interesting at all. "You know, you're pretty good at this."

Terry laughed a little. "Every now and then I can pull something off. Worth a shot, right?"

"Yeah," James said firmly, not quite knowing what he was saying yes to, except that whatever it was he wasn't going to pass up this golden chance to actually do something for once instead of just reading or watching or making it up. "Yeah, we should give it a try."


End file.
